


The songbirds trials

by Romolus



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27981633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romolus/pseuds/Romolus
Summary: Dayle was happy to play the flute as a travelling musician. But the days as a travelling young lad seems to be over as he is being kept prisoner by the king whom is obsessed with him and is fixated on making him his permanently.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Decided to throw up some of Dayle's story that I wrote back in February.

The chains are heavy and drags Dayle's limps to the cold stone floor of the dungeon. His head hangs low, the collar with a chain attached to the wall behind him is the only thing keeping the floor and him from colliding. He would have been strangled by it a long time ago if it wasn't for the the silver flute, that his master's guards ever so gracefully stuck down his throat to make sure that air wouldn't have a problem getting to his lungs. 

Everytime he takes a breath the flute plays a broken tune. Hideous but not loud to the ear, which he is grateful for. His troat is hurting and he thinks it will be hurting for a long time, so it is in his own favour if he just got used to it. You never get used to pain though. You only learn to expect it. So much has he learned since coming to the castle. The master has been a good teacher but non the less brutal in his methods of discipline. This night in the dungeon is not the worst nor the mildest of Daley's punishments but it is the longest which makes him wish it had been the whip or the warm iron that his master had chosen instead. 

Wet footprints echoes down the hall, they stop abruptly infront of Dayle's cell. The door is opened and light streams in, making Dayles dirty figure clear on the floor. His skin is greasy and his eyes red as if he had been crying for hours, his lips were dry and chapped, resting uncomfortably around the flute. He looks up with a whimper, and air flushes through the flute. A shadow is cast on him.

In the doorframe is his master, standing with a stiff back and relaxed shoulders, his tall person illuminated by the flickering light from the torches on the otherside of the cell. He smiles as he slowly steps into the cell and the scent of flowery incense and perfurme follows him, it drowns the stark smell of piss and rot there has orherwise preoccupied the cell.

"Are you ready to play now?" asks his master holding up one hand to signal to the guards to enter. Dayle tries to speak but only unholy tunes comes out of his mouth, he quiets down and nods slightly, the flute won't let him do anymore than that. Its sheath is scrapping the inside of his throat raw and he nows for sure that blood is been drawn.

"Good." His Master says and the guards comes over and frees him from his chains. They didn't touch the flute though. They let it stay and each of them takes a hold of Dayle's arms and hoists him up. They hold him tight and his Master walks over and gribs the flute tenderly, his hands slowly drumming on the instrument. Dayle mewls, closing his eyes tightly.

"Hold him still. Wouldn't want to damage those airways. I do after all have a nice little banquet tonight. Would be a shame not to hear the flute playing at its best." His master smiles, his perfect set of teeth becomes visible, in an eerily attempt at a compassionated expression, he gently strokes Dayle's cheek, tracing the scar of where a cropping whip had hit him once. He hadn't played well enough and Master had made his disappointment known. 

"It wont hurt Dearest." His Master says and pulls the flute out slowly. Dayle can't breath. His Master is so close and it makes his body grow stiff, as if pain is waiting just around the corner. "There we go." Says master and ruffles Dayle's hair softly and gives the flute to the guard at his left. "Take it to cleanining. I want it in perfect condition."

The guards leaves, leaving Dayle and his master alone. His master smiling, praising Dayle for being good and taking his punishment without qualms. Dayle just nods and weeps. It takes all his strength to not fall to the ground grovel at his masters feet.

"Now Dearest, repeat after me." Master says and cups Dayle's head in his hands. "I am never going to go against Master's wishes. I'll be a good boy, listen and do as I'm told."

Dayle nods his head, sobbing heavily and barely able to see through his tears. He repeats his master's words in broken sentences, shaking and feeling like he is drowning.

"Good boy. Now let's get you polished for the banquet. "


	2. Chapter 2

Dayle used to revel in the spotlight, never had he been scared to interact with the audience of the banquets he played for. It was always a joy, making people laugh by playing the melodies of obscene farmers' songs or make them blush and smile at the sound of their favourite ballade. But now, standing alone, without his brother in arms, Dayle could feel nothing but an iron grip of dread in his stomach. His head is hurting from exhaustion and his throat still cramps up now and again as if the flute is still in it, slowly sliding down, and he needs to stop it. But the flute is in his hands, tenderly laying on his lips, only far enough into his mouth for him to blow in it accordingly. 

"He is a fine little thing, don't you think so Lamond." Says the King and waves Dayle over. 

"Indeed, so your majesty." Rumbles Lamond and takes a gulp of his wine. Today’s banquet is small and private, so only the king's closest Dukes and Duchesses are present. This means that the wine and other alcoholic beverages haven't been watered down as per usual. 

"You should have seen him the first time he played for Lamond, with wine coursing in his veins and the happiest smile on his face. Quite endearing to the eye." The king laughs and takes the flute out of Dayle's hands and replaces it with his own golden cup, which is half filled with a dark red wine. 

"Letting him drink from your own cup, your majesty?" Lamond questions with a raised eyebrow, letting his gaze flicker back and forth between the king and the small musician. 

"Why of course. Wouldn't let my Dearest consume anything unless given by my hand. He is a rather nervous soul, wouldn't want him to get uncomfortable without reason." The king muses, and gently pushes the cup to Dayle's mouth, making the other drink the whole thing. Dayle manages not to gag on the unfermented liquid as it tickles his throat. The bitter taste of sweet fruit overwhelms him and he unconsciously scrunches his nose. The king laughs heartedly and caress his cheek. 

"Absolutely endearing. Did you like my wine Dearest?" 

Dayle nods slowly, his eyes linger on the cup as the king removes it from him. 

"I did, thank you Master." 

Lamond leans back in his seat observing the scene in front of him in silent amusement. 

"Well then play me one of your sweet melodies and I’ll grant you some more." The king says as he returns the flute to Dayle and gives him a slight push towards the corner of the room that usually occupies more than just one musician. 

Dayle puts the flute to his mouth and starts playing a soft melody, not too loud for it to interrupt the conversations flowing around at the long table but also not quiet enough to not be heard. The flutes tune is mild to Dayle's headache that has gotten less prominent after he drank the wine. Now that he thinks of it, he can't really feel it anymore, there is still a pressure but now he just feels comfortably tired. He scrunches his eyes hard and opens them quickly again. Falling asleep standing here would make an punishment unavoidable in the nearest future, and looking back at his Master, he looks contempt, even happy so better to keep him that way. 

As the night proceeds, Dayle plays his flute with breaks in between songs, where he goes to his master's side to drink wine from his cup. After the first 3 cups of wine Dayle starts to feel groggy. Like he has a veil slung over him, it is slurring his movements and he has a hard time moving his fingers accordingly on the flute. He can't determine wherever his playing is horrendous or not, because his master is laughing and smiling at him despite him playing the wrong notes. 

The hall has become almost empty, half eaten food on silver platters litter the table. Dayle is fumbling with his flute, he isn't playing anymore, just half-heartedly blowing air into the instrument. His master is looking at him with a bemused look on his face. 

"Dearest come here." Calls his master and Dayle obeys without a second thought. The flute is still in his mouth although he isn't even blowing into it anymore. Master takes the flute and a small whimper escapes Dayle. That is his instrument after all, it’s his. His father gave him that back at home. Home. That is far away. He misses home. Dayle feels tears starting to prick his eyes and he takes a quick breath in an attempt at stopping the oncoming crying. 

"Dearest don't look so sad. You played so well for me today. Here sit down and drink this. You'll feel better." His master waves a at servant and suddenly a chair is placed behind Dayle and his made to sit in it. His master's cup is filled to the brim with some bubbly white liquid and it is given to Dayle, who isn't paying attention to it at all, his gaze is fully on his flute laying in Master's lap. 

"No more playing for you tonight Dearest. Drink and then it’s off to your room." 

"You've given a servant his own room?" Snorts Lamond, his cheeks are red and his speech is slightly slurred. 

"Dearest isn't servant, Lamond, he is the finest instrument in my possession. He needs a room for himself. So, I at all times knows of his whereabouts." 

"Hmmm. I suppose." Mumbles Lamond and the king nods. Dayle gulps down the cups contents quickly and burps when he is finished. He blushes in a deep red, knowing he did something rather rude. He stiffens, will master punish him? His throat constricts and Dayle wants to scream for help. But no sound leaves him. Without warning he is lifted from the chair and thrown over someone’s shoulder, the fast movements make his head and stomach scream in discomfort. It won’t be long before vomit will flow. 

The king stands up and gives the guard, who is holding Dayle, the flute. 

"Take him to his room." 

Before the guard leaves, the king ruffles Dayle's dark curls and gives him a light peck on the head with his lips. 

"You did well Dearest."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter. Hope you all like it. :3  
> -Romolus

Dayle was drenched in sweat, and his breath is coated in a thick layer of foul-tasting spit. Has he been vomiting? There are no memories in his mind from yesterday’s banquet, well he does remember drinking cup of wine, but that is it. His head is hurting, and clutches him, turning onto his side to crumble into a small ball. He wants to kick the blanket off, it is warm and scratches his bare legs. He has never experienced this nauseating feeling before, it’s absolutely horrific, he prays to the gods that the king won’t want him playing today, the idea of him so much as putting the flute to his mouth makes him wince. Suddenly he feels a pull and his body heaves as liquid is forced up his throat and vomit splutters onto the side of the small cot, he his laying on. He takes a deep breath, still feeling as if some vomit might come up again, and it does. This time he expected the pain from the acid liquid burning his throat and nose, but none the less it made him shudder. 

“A goddamn mut you are. I put a damn bucket on the other side but you still barfed all over the floor.” A guard without his amour is standing at the door, holding decanter with water and small clay mug. He sets it down quickly on a small stool before leaving the room. Dayle just looks at the direction he left with lazy eyes and his tongue slightly sticking out of his mouth. It tastes nasty. He glances over at the decanter, and makes a reach for it, but his arms are as heavy as stone and as soon as he has lifted the arm it plops down again by his side.

“Shit.” He mumbles and rubs his temples. He wriggles his body slightly, so he is turned to the other side, and the blanket ties itself tightly around his legs. He sees the bucket that the guard was talking about, he feels slightly bad about using the floor instead of it. But then he remembers his times in the warm chamber and all the times the guards would beat him senseless. Let him clean my vomit, he thinks, with all the intentions of not using the bucket.

“You look like a mess.” The guard grumbles as he enters the room with a bucket of soap water and a cloth. When he passes Dayle he scrunches his nose. “And you smell like it too."

“Why thank you.” Whispers Dayle weakly, closing his eyes with a sigh. The guard either didn’t hear him or chose not to reply. He is quick to wash the floor and as he gets up, he takes the bucket filled with now dirty water and puts it under Dayle’s head, which is laying a bit over the cot’s side. 

“Oh, for gods’ sake.” Dayle screeches and flails to get away from the smell.

“Only fair that you smell it too.” Laughs the guard and removes the bucket, he places it in the corner of the small room and then he goes to fill the mug with water from the decanter. “Here, you need to drink.” The guard holds the mug out for Dayle to take. Dayle just stares at it, making no attempt at reaching for it. The guard's mouths twisted.

“Listen, you need to drink. Otherwise you’ll dehydrate.”

“I don't think I can hold it without dropping it.” Dayle bites the inside of his cheek, his eyes never leaving the mug. The guard shook his head and open his mouth as if to say something but stopped. Dayle looks absolutely pitiful, his dark curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat and his blue eyes are distant and foggy. He is too pale for it to be healthy, and thin as well. The guard grunts before sitting down beside Dayle's body on the cot. Dayle attempts at getting further away but a firm hand on his shoulder stops him. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, his mouth drawn in a thin line of anticipation. Recognition dawns on the guard's face, he has seen that expression of Dayle’s on many new recruits, after they have been roughhoused by older guards or knights. Why does a personal servant of the king expect a hit from a guard who just cleaned up his vomit?

“I'm not going to hit you, but you need water, so let me help you.”

“How can I be sure. You are a guard...” 

“More the reason for you to believe me.”

“I think we have very different opinions on that.” Dayle snaps but turns pale as soon as the words left his mouth, he tries to hide his fear by scowling at guard. 

“Gods be damned. Just let me help you drink the water.”

“It’s not poisoned or something, right?”

“Oh, for fucks sake. Just drink.” The guard reaches his hand behind Dayle’s head to help him lift his head and then tilts the mug slightly, and Dayle lets him, too thirsty to struggle, vivid memories of his dry throat in the warm room is still present in his mind. 

“Thanks.” He says out of habit. The guard simply nods and then turns to leave.

“Someone will come and check on you in an hour so, get some shut eye.” He says and the bids his farewell. 

Dayle tosses and turns on the cot. His body still exhausted and aching, after yesterday’s punishment and of course the alcohol. But other than his nausea, he is feeling more relaxed than he ever has while staying at the castle. There is still a nagging voice that reminds him that the king could turn up any minute and demand his presence for either showing him off to some noble or to just have him in private play his flute or other activities. Dayle whimpers and turns to hide his face in the pillow. His thoughts drift to Alard and the others, he has long ago come to terms with the fact that they probably aren’t coming for him, for even if they knew of his situation, how would they ever be able to get him out of this mess. A few musicians against a King with knights and guards, sounds like a tragic ballade to tell. Of course, he still has a lingering hope that pulls at him, makes his heart ache for the long travels in their small caravan, with Lily and Tom running beside it, playing tag like any restless kids would, laughing. Alard’s old man would sit in the back with his old mandolin and play for his wife, Freya who would in turn read out stories from the old book she always carries with. He misses Alard’s carefree attitude, how he always had a joke or a song to sing when things got gloom. How his hands would fit so perfectly in Dayle’s own, warm to his cold. Sun kissed to pale. Opposites but compatible. Dayle takes a shuddering breath, he cries. 

No one comes to check on him, not that he minds an awfully lot, he is feeling rather vulnerable and his happy that no one is here to exploit it. But he is starting to feel an immense hunger, he can’t remember the last time he has gotten a meal, and his stomach has been emptied a long time ago with all his vomiting. He won’t die, sure, but it doesn’t make his situation any more comfortable. Maybe someone will come soon.

From what he has gathered by seeing the sun rise and fall outside his window, he has been left to his own demise for at least three days, someone has been refilling his water decanter while he has been asleep, but no food has been left behind, and his head is now almost constantly swimming and making him feel as if the world is shaking if he as much as dares to move. On top of that he feels as I his stomach is burning on the inside, as if has started to dissolve itself. At first when these burning sensations started, he also threw up. Only liquid but it still charred the inside of his throat and mouth, and he quickly learned that water doesn’t help erase a bad after taste. The water doesn’t even make him feel full, there is never enough. He has fits now and again, or at least that is what he calls them. It is periods of time where he just feels as if his whole body is vibrating, like he is containing a storm inside, a storm of hunger likely. 

“How are you feeling?” Dayle can barely move, he has a thundering headache and he just manages to moan at the person questioning him. A hand is laid on his stomach, as if is trying to feel how empty he is. No one beside himself can feel that though. “Dearest.” Dayle freezes and fear dawns on him, the man sitting gently on his cot, is his master. His master is here, that can’t bode well. With weak conviction he pushes his left arm on to his master’s arm, to remove it from his person. His master misunderstands the gesture, or maybe he doesn’t, and grabs Dayle’s hand in his. He holds it tightly, gives it a light kiss on the backside. 

“Please… s- “

“shushshush. Don’t waste your energy. I brought something for you.” His master slips his hand and turns to the maid standing by the door, she comes over with a plate filled with different kinds of fruits and what looks to be a piece of bread at the size of a fist. Dayle is uncertain of what this is supposed to mean, is the food for him? Is his master going to give him food, or is it once again one of his sick tricks? “Why so glum, Dearest, I have brought you the finest fruit, freshly plucked from my gardens.” 

“For me?” Dayle laughs groggily and feels like he is about to cry.

“Of course, it is for you!” his master grabs his head and kisses his forehead, Dayle flinches at the action. The king grabs a few red grapes, and holds them up to Dayle’s mouth, and forces two into it. Dayle scrunches his eyebrows but chews slowly on the juicy fruits. The taste is overwhelming, and he must have made a grimace for the king giggles. “Good boy,” he says and pulls out Dayle’s flute, it had been hiding under the kings red jacket, sitting in his belt. “But now as a good boy, you need to earn your food.” He lays the flute into Dayle’s slack hand and makes Dayle’s fingers close around the instrument. “play me a small tune.” Dayle glares at the wretched thing in his hand but starts playing on it. He chooses to play a short piece, but he is still out of breath when he finishes off. A fog has been laid in his mind, and he grabs at the blanket to stabilize himself. “You truly are a good boy, Dearest, here.” His master takes the flute, and, in its stead, he puts the piece of bread. Dayle is about to bite into the bread, when he has finally gotten his breath back, but a hand clamps down on his mouth. 

“You’ve forgotten something Dearest.” With wide round eyes, Dayle looks up at his master and a knot is tied around his throat. What has he forgotten? His muddled mind searches in desperation for something, but he can’t seem to find anything. He played the flute. He ate off of his master’s hand. What could he possibly have forgotten?

“A polite thank you master would suffice. Don’t you think so dearest?” Dayle nods weakly, and the hand is removed from his mouth.

“I apo- apologize master…” he takes a deep inhale. “Thank y-you for the food, ma…master.” He forces the sentences out, feeling dirty as they are spoken out loud. 

“Anything for you Dearest.” His master replies, and as Dayle eats he starts to talk about what have been going on around court, as if Dayle is an equal and not just a toy for his amusement. Dayle listens as he eats, although he isn’t really listening, for he cannot seem to concentrate.


End file.
